


You Promised Nothing (But Gave Me Everything)

by mickeym



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester Loves Sam Winchester, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-02
Updated: 2008-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 06:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7034083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeym/pseuds/mickeym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dean always takes care of Sam.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Promised Nothing (But Gave Me Everything)

**Author's Note:**

> Wendy said something about wanting schmoop. I'm not sure if this exactly fits the bill, but hopefully :) It wasn't quite what I'd planned to write, but as we all know, the writer is hardly ever in control *g* Hope y'all enjoy :)

Dean loses his virginity to Carissa Beckham when he's fourteen. She's eighteen, flush with graduation from high school and looking forward to college in the fall. He's just flush with going all the way with a chick who's older, sexy, and doesn't care that he's not going to be around two weeks from now. He rides the high all the way home, heat still snaking through him.

That heat burns cold and painful when Dean gets inside the motel room they're calling home this month, and he finds Sam sitting in the dark on the small, uncomfortable sofa, skinny arms locked around skinnier legs. A glimmer of light from outside when the curtain flutters in the night breeze makes Sam's cheeks shine, and anything Dean was about to say dies on his tongue, the words bitter and dry.

"Sammy?"

"Nothin'," Sam says, dragging his arm across his face. "Just a bad dream."

 _And I wasn't here_ , Dean thinks. He maybe hates himself a little for that. "Get dressed," he says gruffly, trying to hide it.

Sam sniffles. "What? Why?"

"We'll go get shakes. Sonic's still open."

The hug Sam gives him as he hurries past makes Dean feel even warmer than getting laid an hour ago made him feel.

~~~~~

He's only gone a couple of hours. Just a couple lousy, little hours -- a guy can't live on television and soda alone, after all, and there's a pool hall not too far from their current digs -- and Sam's gone, no note, nothing.

Little bitch thinks he can just up and take off, he's got another think coming. Fourteen for Sam isn't the same as it was for Dean, and yeah, Dean's well aware of the hypocrisy, thank you very much.

Dean's halfway into a satisfying fantasy of how he's going to rearrange Sam's face when he sees it again, when he hears a quiet moan from the bathroom.

He takes off down the hall muttering, "If you're in there jerking off, after worrying me half to death--" 

Quiet is the name of the game. Quiet and stealthy, and Dean readies himself to _shove_ the door open and hopefully scare Sam half to death. Payback, man. That's what it's all about.

Instead of the jump and shout Dean's expecting, along with blushing and stammering and catching Sam with his dick out, he's greeted with the sight of Sam slumped on the floor, leaning against the tub. The bitter reek of vomit hangs heavy in the air, and Sam's face twists up again as Dean stands there.

He's at Sam's side in under a second, stroking sweaty, stringy hair back from Sam's face and rubbing his back -- t-shirt sweat-soaked and clinging to Sam's skinny frame -- through the spasms.

"Easy, Sammy. Just bring it up." Dean murmurs the words over and over until Sam's done puking; once he's slumped back against the tub Dean wets a washcloth with cool water, and hands him a cup of the same. "Rinse your mouth out," he instructs, and flushes the toilet after Sam rinses and spits. He wipes Sam's face down, thumbs smoothing away the tears still leaking out.

"I hate being sick," Sam says, voice hoarse. He tenses up, face going pale again.

"Gonna be sick again?" Dean doesn't even get the words fully out before Sam's nodding and lurching forward, and then they start the cycle all over again.

It feels like hours later, though Dean knows it isn't, before Dean gets Sam up and on his feet long enough to walk him down the hall to their bedroom. He makes short work of the wet, clammy t-shirt and jeans and settles Sam in bed, pulling the covers up against the tremors shaking Sam's body.

"Cold," Sam whispers, already halfway to unconscious. He moves restlessly, shifting and twitching, until Dean can't stand it any longer.

"Shove over," he says roughly, toeing his boots off. He's not sure Sam's awake enough still to actually hear him, but it doesn't matter. Dean slides in beside Sam, turning onto his side to get closer. Sam's not cold; his skin is fever-hot, burning into Dean's.

He wiggles closer anyway, slipping one arm over Sam's waist.

"Feel good." Sam whimpers the words and settles back against Dean, body relaxing into sleep.

Dean presses a kiss to the side of Sam's head and closes his eyes. Yeah. It does feel good.

~~~~~

Birthdays aren't a big thing for Dean; haven't been for a long time. After all, he was drinking and driving _long_ before he was technically legal, so what did it matter?

But this birthday isn't only his, and it's hitting Sam hard. 

Dean's never lost anyone like Sam has, and three months isn't very long to get past something like that. He feels kind of helpless -- not a comfortable feeling for someone who's usually in control -- and wishes he knew what to do, or say. Sam's been increasingly quiet and withdrawn as the days wound down to the 24th, and last night Dean heard him crying, muffled and indistinct to the ears, but screaming loudly through Dean's heart.

"Rise and shine, bitch," he says, smacking Sam's ass. He knows Sam's awake -- doubts he slept much, if at all. But appearances are everything, right? 

"'M awake." Sam grunts and shifts upright, and one look at his face makes Dean almost consider violating his own no-chick-flick-moments rule. "What?"

Dean shrugs. "Thought we'd get an early start on the day. Maybe go find some place and get a real breakfast. I'd kill for some pancakes."

Sam blinks at him. "You don't even _like_ pancakes."

"Sure I do. Sometimes. Once in a while." Dean shrugs again. "Whatever. Get moving, princess. Things to see, people to do."

Sam snorts, but gets out of bed, and Dean sags with relief when he heads into the bathroom and the shower turns on a minute or so later.

Later, in the car and barreling down the road, Dean gropes for his tape box and comes up empty. He spends the next hour and a half hassling Sam about hiding his tapes and grudgingly nods when Sam settles the radio dial on some indy music station. When Dean sneaks a glance at Sam out of the corner of his eye, Sam's tapping on his thigh with his fingers to the beat of the song. It takes everything in Dean to keep the smile that wants out from getting out.

The day goes pretty much like that: Dean grumping at Sam about this or that, "giving in" to fancy coffee at Starbucks, and a sit-down dinner at a real restaurant instead of their usual fast food or diner experience. He finds a pair of pink fuzzy dice when they stop for gas, and tosses them at Sam with an offhand, "every girl needs something pink", then laughing at the indignation on Sam's face that gradually fades to something like consideration, and then understanding.

"Thanks," Sam says later, when they're stretched out on their beds and staring at the TV. 

"For what?" Dean's halfway to sleep -- who knew it was so exhausting to give Sam a break from his head for the day? -- and the words come out drowsy and soft.

"For today." Something soft hits him on the forehead and Dean squints at the rolled-up socks now laying beside him. "You didn't--have to."

"Dude, I didn't do anything." Dean throws the socks back. "Now shut up and let me sleep."

Sam's quiet for a minute, and Dean slides a little closer to sleep. He's hovering right there on the edge of sleep when there's a rustling sound and then Sam's breathing right beside him.

"Happy birthday, jerk," Sam says softly. So softly Dean barely hears him. He's just about to tell Sam to _go to bed, dammit,_ when there's the briefest warmwet pressure on his forehead, Sam brushing a kiss there.

~~~~~

Ben isn't his kid, and that should relieve Dean, should make him feel relaxed and at ease. He doesn't, though; instead he feels something like disappointment, like he's not leaving anything behind that counts for anything.

He sits in the dark and watches his brother sleep, and thinks about how his entire life can be summed up in a few words: born, hunted, lived, died.

Sam rolls over in his sleep -- no more visions since they killed yellow eyes, but the nightmares will probably never stop -- and it isn't until Dean's been staring for a few minutes that he realizes Sam's awake and watching him back.

"Not sleeping?" Sam's voice is rough with sleep.

Dean shakes his head. "Not really tired."

"You should try and sleep. Got a long drive tomorrow."

"You go back to sleep, Sam."

"Dean--" Sam shifts and wriggles, then pats the bed beside him. "Here. C'mon."

Dean snorts. "I don't put out on the first date."

"We haven't had a date, dumbass." Flash of white is Sam's teeth as he smiles, and Dean doesn't need lamplight to know the dimples are out in full force. "C'mon, get some sleep. I promise not to hog the pillows."

That makes him laugh, a sharp bark of sound. "Yeah, right." 

But the invitation curls through him, the promise of Sam next to him, warm and solid, safe and _alive_. He starts to protest when Sam curls up against him, sliding one arm over him to spoon close, then gives up as Sam's warmth bleeds into him, taking the chill off his skin.

"Gotcha," Sam whispers, and Dean blinks against the sting of tears suddenly in his eyes.

"Yeah," he manages, and pretends he doesn't press back, into that welcome warmth. Into the love there.

It strikes him then, as Sam's breathing evens out and Dean's slows to match it; as sleep tugs him gently toward oblivion, that he is leaving behind something worthwhile, something that defines his life as more than a few words. Something that means _everything_.

It's Sam. 

And it makes everything he's ever done, and everything he might not get to do, worth it.

~fin~


End file.
